The Blood Curse (46 page)

“I’ll tell them you need to use the privy.” Britta scrambled down from the wagon.

Karel watched her cross to the fire. Was he doing the right thing, going with her? Would she have a better chance of survival alone?

Bennick put down his mug, climbed to his feet, and strolled across to the wagon. “Lapdog needs to piss, huh?”

Karel ignored the jibe. He reached for the stave and awkwardly pulled himself to the edge of the wagon. The dried meat, waterskins, and blankets were bundled together by the tailboard, ready for Britta to snatch when the time came.

“What?” Bennick said, catching sight of the half-full plates. “Didn’t like your dinner?”

“Pork tasted a bit off.”

“You really are a lapdog, aren’t you?” There was contempt in Bennick’s voice.

Karel planted the stave on the ground and tried to lean some of his weight on it as Bennick helped him down. His ribs grated together. Breathing became difficult. He clung to the stave, squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to groan.

Bennick took him behind the wagon to pee. He needed the assassin’s help to unbuckle his belt.
How can I escape when I can’t even piss by myself?

Bennick helped him back around the wagon. Karel stared hard at Vught. He’d seen the man drink two mugs of tea. When would the vomiting start? Or had Jaumé lost his nerve and not used the feverwort root?

“Mind if I sit by the fire for a while?”

Bennick shrugged.

Karel limped towards the fire, leaning on Bennick, leaning on the stave. When he put too much weight on his left leg, the pain made him grunt.

“Lapdog wants to sit by the fire,” Bennick told Vught.

Vught looked sour, and shrugged.

Karel levered himself awkwardly down onto a burned chopping block. The princess came across and perched on an upturned bucket alongside him. A small tinderbox sat on the ground beside the bucket. The tinderbox Jaumé had used to light the fire? Karel caught the princess’s eye, then glanced at the tinderbox. She understood; she shifted position slightly, nudging the tinderbox closer to the bucket with her foot.

Karel carefully didn’t look at Jaumé. He held his hands out to the fire and glanced at Bennick, glanced at Vught. Did either of them look ill?

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

I
NNIS CIRCLED OVER
the Fithians. This wasn’t the party Serril had described—six men and a boy. She saw three men and a boy, but also a woman. The woman’s hair was chopped short and she wore men’s clothing, but everything about her—the way she moved, the shape of her face, the smooth, unbearded skin—proclaimed her a woman. Surely Serril wouldn’t have mistaken her for a man?

One of the men was injured. His dark face was gaunt with pain. He carried no weapons. Nor did the woman. But the boy was armed.

Innis circled, studying the people around the campfire, observing who spoke to whom. The party was in two groups, she decided. Two of the men were Fithian. The woman and injured man were prisoners. The boy...

She couldn’t figure out the boy. He was a Fithian recruit, that was obvious. The assassin with the red-blond hair was his mentor. The boy kept close to him and seemed wary of the other, older Fithian. But the boy also had some kind of connection with the prisoners. She could see it in his body language, in the prisoners’ body language. All three of them were aware of each other—
very
aware—and yet the prisoners didn’t look at the boy, and the boy didn’t look at them. There was a nervousness in the boy’s movements, and a tense watchfulness in the prisoners, and she had a sense that all three of them were waiting for something. But what?

Innis watched for several more minutes, then let the wind push her down the valley.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

J
AUMÉ KNEW HE’D
made a mistake. He’d not put enough feverwort roots in the tea, and not steeped them long enough. The emmytick wasn’t working. He stared at the fire, unable to look at the princess or the soldier—

Vught abruptly pushed to his feet. He took half a dozen steps away from the fire, and vomited.

Jaumé’s head jerked up. He looked at Vught, bent over, retching, and then at Bennick. Bennick’s face was gray beneath the red stubble. His hands were pressed to his belly.

It’s working!

Bennick stood, lurched across to a pile of rubble, and vomited.

Jaumé leapt to his feet. He ran to where the packsaddles were piled and grabbed the bundle of herbs. The princess and the soldier were on their feet, too. The princess was at the wagon, slinging the waterskins over her shoulder, and the soldier was limping towards the back of the ruined farmhouse.

Jaumé darted past him, shoved back the bar, and heaved the door open. He turned back to the soldier.

“Keep going,” the soldier said, through gritted teeth. “I’ll follow.”

Jaumé ran down the snowy jetty. Above him, an almost-full moon hung in the sky. Someone ran behind him, feet thudding on the boards—the princess. Together they heaved the rowboat over. The oars were underneath the boat. Jaumé flung the herbs in, and the oars, and the princess threw in a pile of blankets and the pouch of dried meat. She turned to him. “Jaumé, may we have a weapon? Your sword?”

Jaumé hesitated.

“Please!”

He ran back through the door. The soldier had almost reached it.

Jaumé skirted the fire, wrenched open the packsaddle that held his sword, and hauled it out. Bennick and Vught were both bent over, still vomiting. Jaumé cast Bennick an anxious glance. He had to get him into the wagon. If Bennick collapsed on the snow, he could catch the curse.

He ran for the door. At the last moment, he saw the spyglass lying beside the fire. It must have fallen from beneath Bennick’s cloak. He snatched it up.

The soldier was through the door and limping down the jetty, the princess helping him. Jaumé darted past and flung the sword into the boat. He wrapped the rope around his fist and cried, “Help me get it in the water!”

The princess stopped helping the soldier. Together, Jaumé and she lifted the boat and lowered it over the edge of the jetty. It hit the water with a soft
plish
. The rope began to tug.

Jaumé towed the boat to where a short ladder with six wooden rungs hung down. The black water reflected the moonlight. “Hurry!”

The soldier was two-thirds of the way down the jetty, leaning on the princess, leaning on the stave.

Jaumé jittered with anxiety. “Hurry!” he cried again.

It seemed to take an eternity for the soldier to reach him. Jaumé heard his breath, loud, hoarse, almost groaning.

The soldier did groan when he saw the ladder. “All-Mother,” he said, under his breath. It sounded like a plea.

“Get in!” Jaumé cried. “Get in! Hurry!”

The soldier lowered himself to sit on the edge of the jetty. He released the stave and let it drop into the boat. To Jaumé’s eyes it looked as if he didn’t try to climb down the ladder, but just let himself fall, like the stave.

The boat rocked and the rope almost pulled from Jaumé’s fist. He tightened his grip. The soldier’s teeth flashed in the moonlight: a grimace of agony.

“Karel!” the princess cried. She scrambled halfway down the ladder, then turned and climbed back up again, hugged Jaumé fiercely, kissed his cheek. “Thank you.
Be careful!
”

Jaumé remembered the spyglass. “Wait! Spyglass!”

The princess shoved it under her cloak and climbed down the ladder. When she was in the boat, he said, “Use the oar as a rudder! In the stern. No, the other end of the boat. The other end!”

He until she’d clambered to the stern, then flung the rope into the boat and ran back into the farmhouse.

B
ENNICK WAS STILL
bent over, his hands braced on his knees, his head hanging. Vomit splattered the ground at his feet. Vught was kneeling, half-way to the door. His eyes followed Jaumé as he ran towards them. “Where’s the princess?” he grated out.

“Ran away,” Jaumé cried. “I tried to stop them!”

“Ran away?” Vught staggered to his feet, took several lurching steps towards the door, paused, and vomited.

“I tried to stop them,” Jaumé said again.

Vught looked up, and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His eyes seemed to spear Jaumé. “Tried to stop them, did you?”

Jaumé nodded, and sidled past Vught, heading for Bennick.

Vught’s arm snaked out. Hard fingers bit into Jaumé’s arm. “Looked to me like you was helping ’em.”

“No!” Jaumé tried to pull free.

Vught’s grip tightened, pinching flesh against bone. He hauled Jaumé closer, shook him hard, making his head snap on his neck. “You helped.” His other hand reached beneath his cloak, came out holding his heavy throwing knife. The sharp blade glinted in the moonlight.

“No!” Jaumé cried again, trying to twist free.

Vught released him suddenly and bent over, caught in a paroxysm of vomiting. Jaumé stumbled, almost fell, turned to run—and halted. Vught wasn’t someone you ran from. Vught would throw his big knife and skewer him through the back of his skull.

Jaumé fumbled for his own knife, wrenching it from the sheath. He stepped closer to Vught and stabbed the side of Vught’s neck as hard as he could—a punching blow, just under his jawbone—and pulled the knife out. Blood gushed blackly.

Vught staggered, half-turned, and slashed out with his knife. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Jaumé backed away. His heart thundered in his chest.

Vught lurched forward a step, raised his knife to throw, and collapsed to his knees. His eyes were fixed on Jaumé. His mouth was still open, as if he was roaring.

Jaumé turned and ran to the fire. There was no blood on his hand, but the knife blade was red with it. He put the knife on the chopping block and turned to Bennick. Bennick was on hands and knees, retching.

“Stand up! Stand up!” Jaumé screamed. “Get away from the snow!” He grabbed Bennick’s arm, heaving him up.

Bennick stood, lurching and swaying. “Rutting lapdog was right,” he gasped. “Pork was off.”

“Into the wagon! Into the wagon!”

He guided Bennick to the wagon, pushed and pulled him into it, then ran to the packsaddles and got an armful of blankets. He looked across the yard. Vught had pitched forward and was lying face-down.

Jaumé climbed back into the wagon and made Bennick as comfortable as he could, wiping his face, wrapping him in blankets, giving him a mug of water to drink and the old bucket to retch into when he brought the water back up. Bennick was white-faced and sweating, shaking.
I’m sorry, Bennick. I’m sorry
.

Jaumé was shaking as much as Bennick. He’d stabbed a man before, a thief in Cornas who’d tried to steal his bread, but this was different. This time he’d killed someone. And then fear grabbed him: maybe Vught wasn’t dead?

The fear was so strong that he had to creep down from the wagon and tiptoe across to where Vught lay. Vught didn’t move, didn’t seem to be breathing. Jaumé crouched cautiously. The smell of vomit and blood was strong. One of Vught’s hands was out-flung, the underside of his wrist exposed. Jaumé reached for it with trembling fingers.

Vught’s skin was cold. He didn’t twitch, didn’t rear up and grab him.

Jaumé couldn’t find a pulse. He went back to the wagon, but he walked sideways, his gaze on Vught. Vught was dead, but, deep down, Jaumé knew Vught would come back to life and kill him if he could.